


M.O.N. 2: Fried Game

by OmniGawker



Series: The Traveling Hashery [6]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Facing fear, Gen, Random & Short, Regret
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:27:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24394267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OmniGawker/pseuds/OmniGawker
Summary: The one little tale where the masked cook of the Traveling Hashery decides to leave his shop. Regret was all he found.
Series: The Traveling Hashery [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1622839





	M.O.N. 2: Fried Game

Nobody came out of the forest behind him

Nothing rose from the waves of the ocean in front of him.

No little turtles dug themselves out of the sands beneath him.

Not even a seagull squawked in the skies above.

It was just the lone cook in the kitchen of his little hashery.

Yet there were no flames from his stoves, the timers were not ticking down to zero.

The cook looked out of one of the windows of his hashery and he couldn’t help but let out a dreary sigh.

For the outside sunny beaches with their cool salty breezes of salt and water and waving palm trees that offered him shade felt far more inviting than the static florescent lit kitchen with its unlit stoves and piles of unwashed plates that he stands amongst in his kitchen.

A thought that should be quashed right there and then but that didn’t make it any more untrue to him.

His hashery was beginning to stifle the masked man and that scared him.

Yet there was no one he could sense nearby. Nobody to learn from, nobody to share fresh dishes with, and the Hasherer certainly had no spark to start up the fires.

Although, he could step out of his hashery…

The Hasherer shook his head at the thought of that but the thought persisted.

Well it didn’t seem too difficult; the cook thought to himself, rarely the visitors had nothing to give him whenever they stumbled across his hashery. Even those that didn’t have anything new to learn did offer something new for him to cook.

Or if they fail to do even that, they helped out by becoming a part of the next plate.

But usually those ingredients were heroes and adventurers themselves and the Hasherer was able to put them on the chopping board.

It was absurd that they were so easily cut to pieces by his lanky hands. Especially those who claimed that his hashery was an oasis of peace in their worlds of death and violence.

So why not go?

And so it was decided, the cook gave himself a few pounds to the chest to settle the nerves and made to pick up whatever cutting, smashing, and catching tools that seemed logical enough to bring to the outside.

Though he may have to consider bringing back his quarry in several trips so he went into the basement and brought out a wooden sled that had bundles upon bundles of rope on it.

The cook tucked the fork into his pockets and tightened his mask before setting out the doors.

For if there is no one to come to his hashery then he might as well bring a little bit of that hashery to them.

The hashery became silent when its owner left save for the sounds of the crashing waves and breezy winds. It was a picture of tranquil peace.

Then a thundering savage roar tore through the air followed by the crackling crashes of trees and the smaller inhuman screams of the cook.

There were clanging of blades against stone, shattering wood and plastics, and ripping of cloth that permeated the scream exchange.

Then the inhuman screams suddenly became muffled after a loud snap of jaws and a gulp.

There was a deep throaty rumble of satisfaction until there was a sudden yelp of pain that devolved to a long squeal as a wet rip was made that was soon followed by a huge moist splattering of innards hitting the floor and a lot of shallow panting.

The panting gradually stopped and there was the crackling and snapping of bone and flesh that led to the long sound of meat being sliced until there was a heavy thud that had a few wet splatters.

Then there were wet, sticky footsteps and shifting sand that approached the hashery that announced the entrance of a now slime covered, bruised and inking Hasherer who wobblily walked right through the doors before he face planted on the floor.

His tools were bent, broken or missing; his clothes were reduced to a holey shirt, undergarments, and ripped mask that clung to his scarred body and face.

Shakily, he got up on his knees and pulled an end of rope that yanked in a still beating heart that could barely squeeze through the hashery doors.

The cook looked at the stilling organ behind him with narrowed eyes. He knew that he would have to bring out the biggest and sharpest blades he had to chop up this piece of meat.

He’ll fry it with the hottest vats of oil and herbs before skewering the pieces with the spikiest sticks he could find and fry them again just to have the last blow upon its recently opened owner.

But he would most definitely let those visitors have their worlds.

His hashery was more than enough for him.

And yet a small part of him wished to go back out…


End file.
